


Thrask Family Stories

by RiaJade01



Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Some angst, Vignettes, courtship fluff, marriage fluff, more specific content notes at the beginning of each chapter where necessary, pre-swtor stories too, random one-shots that fit loosely together into an atemporal narrative, really just a large cuddle puddle of things made of fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-22 14:10:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9610862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaJade01/pseuds/RiaJade01
Summary: Mara Thrask is the Emperor's Wrath and the head of a noble Sith house. Malavai Quinn is a sometimes-disgraced Imperial Army captain. Quinn tries to slow-burn their inevitable romance, but they still fall for one another in very short order. There's a big hiccup, but through it all, the one thing these two control freaks have in common is they love one another more than pretty much anything else in the galaxy. Their actual overarching story is playing out in my other fics. These are random snapshots from their life together arranged in no particular timeline order. Notes at the beginning of each chapter will identify timeline and other important context (I hope).





	1. Sith Marriage

**Author's Note:**

> This is set just after the end of Chapter 2, after Vengean's death but before Baras sends Mara and her crew back out into the field. Quinn and Mara take some personal time to mark an important milestone.

The sound of thunder shook Quinn awake.  He shifted groggily, uneasy for reasons he could not identify in his current state, rolled over and reached for the bed’s other occupant, only to find empty, rumpled sheets.  The wrongness of his surroundings rushed in on him, then: the thunder and sound of rain; the scent of the room, which smelled of caf but had none of the mustiness of recycled air found aboard ship; the color of the light pressing against his eyelids, brighter than usual.  Even the ceiling sounded too high.

That assessment happened in the space between heartbeats. Quinn’s eyes popped open and he sat up slightly to survey his surroundings.  He jerked in surprise when he noticed a large grey cat curled up on the bed mere centimeters from his feet.  The animal opened its orange eyes lazily, flicked its tail, and went back to sleep.  It was also about that time Quinn realized he was quite naked under the sheet draped haphazardly over him.

“Malavai.” 

Her voice was gentle, calming his nerves.  Mara was sitting on a sofa in the corner of the room, wrapped in a silky grey robe that shone against her red skin, her red-black hair flowing loose over her shoulders.

The last 24 hours snapped into focus for him and he found himself smiling, the tension draining from his body.

“Good morning, wife.” 

The word was foreign in his mouth, a term he had never thought to use for anyone.  That he had the privilege of using it for her… his smile broadened.

“Will you always smile like that when you say it?”  She was grinning back at him.  

He felt quite certain to any third-party observer they looked utterly ridiculous, and he did not care.

“I shall try, darling.”

He turned toward the edge of the bed and found a pair of soft trousers on the side table.  She must have placed them there after she rose for the day; he certainly had not had the foresight, and their clothes from the day before – his dress uniform, her deep blue gown – were strewn in a conspicuously clear path from the door of the room to the utterly disheveled bed.

Outside the windows, low clouds curled tendrils of mist around pine trees as the storm continued.  They were in Mara’s rooms on the Thrask family estate, hours north of Kaas City by speeder.  They had been married the day before by a local justice minister, who was also a family friend, with Mara’s father, Admiral Gilad Thrask, and Major Ovech as witnesses.  The small party after had been held in a local cantina whose amiably chatty proprietor seemed to look on Mara as one of his own.  He managed to corner Quinn and ask about their plans for “heirs to his lady's estate” before Mara had been able to gently disentangle him from the conversation.

As much as he loved his wife – and stars help him, he loved her more than seemed healthy for any being – he doubted he would ever be comfortable here.  Both Mara and her father interacted with Quinn on his terms, but the rest of the local population seemed to have little regard for propriety, especially as it concerned the Thrask family, which the common populace seemed to view as both benevolent rulers and communal wards.  This kind of universal familiarity was as far outside of Quinn’s experience as was Mara’s Force sensitivity.

He slipped into the trousers and walked over to the sofa where Mara was sitting, leaning down to kiss her gently.  She poured him a cup of caf from a carafe on the low table next to her.  He belatedly realized the table was strewn with data sticks and, incredulously, paper reports, and there was a datapad in her lap.  He raised an eyebrow; aboard the Fury, this situation was usually reversed.

“How long have you been awake?”

“About an hour.  I thought I’d let you sleep.”  She smiled mischievously.  “You seemed to need it after last night.”

“Yes, well, someone slipped an insatiable Sith Lord into my bed and there was little I could do about the matter.” 

She laughed. “On the contrary, darling, I believe you did everything possible about it.”

“Not everything; I think I may have a trick or two left should she visit again.” He grinned, then motioned toward the table.  “What is all this?”

“Estate work.”  

He looked at her, surprised. 

“There’s a reason other than simple laziness that I leave most of the Fury’s administrative work to you, dear,” she said dryly.  “My staff handles most of the day-to-day minutia, but there are always things that need my personal attention.  I thought it prudent to meet with my people while we’re here.”  She frowned at the datapad as another round of thunder shook the house.  “I’ve been away too long.”

Quinn tried to bury his disappointment, stood and kissed her forehead. 

“I’ll let you work.”

She caught his arm. “Please, stay.”

Her words warmed him, even if they were somewhat empty.  “Darling, I’d happily watch you do most anything, but I’m sure there’s other work I should stay on top of.”

“No, I want your opinion on this.” 

She handed him the datapad.  He took it and sat back down, setting his caf aside as he began reading.  He started in shock.  The files contained everything about her family’s business contracts with the Imperial military; financial information, contacts, terms of art… he gaped at her.

“Mara, this is highly confidential material,” he pressed the datapad back into her hands.  “I cannot in good conscience look at it.  This should only be shared with-“

“With family?”  She raised an eyebrow at him.  “What do you think you are?”  She held the datapad out to him expectantly.

He stared at it.  Family… he knew that word did not mean to her what it meant to him.  Memories flashed through his mind, of a series of boarding schools; of a pointed lack of contact from his parents unless he embarrassed them in some way (more than he already had, being born Force-blind), which led to his preference of hearing from them as little as possible.  He knew it would take months for them to even realize he was married. 

But it could mean... this instead, he realized, looking into her amber-colored eyes.  Warmth.  Imperviousness to the rain outside.  She nodded as if she’d heard him.

“You are my family, Malavai, the only part of it that I get to actively choose, and I want to share this with you as much as I can.”  She pressed the datapad into his hand gently. 

He took it, groped for words as emotion overwhelmed him.  He remembered what it felt like when she had agreed to marry him: the elation, the suffocating happiness.  This was akin to that.

“Mara, I…” He exhaled helplessly.  “I am speechless.”

She reached out a hand to cup his cheek.  “I can hear you perfectly,” she said.

She leaned over and kissed him, her lips gentle on his.  “Welcome home, husband.”


	2. Life Day In Space

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mara spends her first Life Day as Baras's apprentice aboard ship awaiting orders. Three very different people are sharing entirely too little space. Tempers are frayed, but somehow the true spirit of Life Day shines through. *awwww* I'm bad at Imperial calendars, but I've decided that Life Day happens between Tatooine and Alderaan in the Mara's timeline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marserha is a Sith deity created by fluffynexu, and the Râzkaj Ladzleq was originally conceived of by erunamiryene.

“Vette, Quinn, I’d like to see you both in the galley immediately.”

Mara keyed off the comm and smiled down at the gold-foil box in front of her. The Fury’s galley provided only minimal cooking implements and she’d had to make do with ingredients that were either non-perishable or that she could squirrel away in the small refrigerator, but even with those constraints she’d managed to pull off her annual Life Day candy making with reasonable success. The small induction cooktop was sufficient for her father’s toffee recipe.

“Do we finally get to know what you’ve been doing in here?” Vette asked as she entered the room. Her nose wrinkled slightly as she sniffed the air. “Is that…” her eyes lit up. “You melted chocolate, didn’t you?”

“I did.” Mara turned and grabbed a bag of chocolate wafers off the counter and tossed it on the table. “Leftovers, if you want them.”

“You wished to see me, my lord?” Quinn stepped into the room, coming to an easy parade rest when he stopped moving.

Mara suppressed a sigh at his formality. He’d kept her at arm’s length since they left Tatooine. He claimed it was shame at being caught unawares by Master Yonlach, but Mara knew it had more to do with the events at the oasis, where she’d dropped unconscious after heatstroke and the effects of her Force vision overwhelmed her. She woke to find her upper body armor stripped off and Quinn leaning over her, pressing cool, damp cloth to the back of her neck, his touch tender. Remembering the way he’d blushed and scrambled away from her when he realized she was awake, Mara clenched a fist.

It was beyond her how he could go to such ridiculous lengths to thwart their obvious mutual attraction. There were days she wondered why she continued to persist in this frustrating game. Especially days like today, when everything about him left her wanting to close a hand around his throat; the precision parade rest, the way his blue eyes smoothly slid away from hers, the way he mouthed ‘my lord’ when he should have been moaning her name by now…

Quinn’s calm faltered ever so slightly, and Mara realized she was glaring at him, her hand still clenched in a fist. She forced herself to relax and looked away, reminding herself at least half of her annoyance stemmed from being cooped up in the ship for a week now as they awaited further orders from Baras. Even Vette’s levity, a trait she and Mara shared, had begun to grate. The twi’lek woman did not know how to gauge her audience, or quit while she was ahead.

Three very different personalities, one suffocatingly tiny ship. It was a miracle they hadn’t killed one another by now. The tension in the galley was palpable; Vette and Quinn stood conspicuously on opposite sides of the table, Vette’s back turned to the captain, and Quinn’s body angled so he could respectfully address Mara without Vette marring his field of vision.

That was about to change. She hoped.

“I know recent days have been… challenging,” she began. “And I know we are all sick of one another. But, Life Day is tomorrow, and it has always been a tradition in my family to exchange gifts the night before, and share a meal the day of.”

“I am not plying you for gifts,” she said hastily, as she felt a wave of surprise roll off of both of them. “We are an odd, cobbled-together family of sorts, with all the dysfunction that implies.” She smiled ruefully and pushed the box down the table to sit neatly between them. “But I am grateful that you are each in my life, and I hope you will not mind if I continue this tradition with you.”

Vette smiled, her lower lip a bit wobbly. “You are the nicest Sith ever,” she said, rushing over to grip Mara in a fierce hug.

Mara squeezed her in return and glanced over Vette’s head at Quinn. He did not speak, but his posture had relaxed, and when their eyes met he gave her a broad, unreserved smile. She had never seen his face so open. Her heart leapt and she smiled back.

“Well, open it,” she urged shooing Vette back toward the other end of the table.

Vette and Quinn exchanged a look and Vette flipped the top of the box open to reveal the pieces of toffee stacked within like tiny pieces of driftwood. The both stopped and looked up at her. Mara felt her smile slip.

“What is it?” Vette asked.

Mara frowned. “It’s toffee. You’ve never had it?”

Vette picked up a piece and sniffed it. The layer of chocolate over the toffee seemed to convince her, for she took a bite and chewed it loudly. Quinn did the same.

“It tastes like butter.” Vette said, her nose wrinkling again, this time in disgust. “Why does it taste like butter? Why would you ruin chocolate with butter?”

She snatched the bag of leftover chocolate from the table and held it against her, as if to shield it from further harm.

Mara frowned. “Butter is the main ingredient. It’s butter and sugar. This is… this is not a weird thing, Vette.”

She turned a hopeful face to Quinn. He grew up in the Empire; surely he’d had toffee before. That hope was short-lived. He was staring at his piece thoughtfully. He looked up, feeling her gaze on him, and seemed to be casting about for something nice to say.

“It is… rather sweet, my lord.”

Mara stared at both of them, not bothering to keep the disappointment from her face. Both had the good grace to look somewhat abashed. And then they turned on one another.

“Apologize for your rudeness, Vette!”

“Me? If you didn’t hate everything nice maybe you wouldn’t hate this, too!”

Mara stood in shock as they continued arguing about who should apologize to her. The headache that had soothed itself as she cooked the toffee rushed back.

“Enough!” She glared at them both. “One day. One _kriffing_ day without your bickering. Is that so much to ask?”

She used the Force to shove them apart and left the galley, yanking the box off the table as she passed. She stomped to her quarters and remained shut up in them for the rest of the evening.

***

“Happy Life Day, assholes!”

Quinn bolted upright, sure he’d misheard. He raised the lights in the crew quarters, ignoring Vette’s groan of protest, and looked around. Mara was nowhere to be seen. He walked to the door leading out into the main body of the ship and keyed it open. Nothing happened.

“My lord?” He called.

“Good morning, Captain Quinn,” came the reply through the room’s intercom. “Vette! Wake up so your lord can wish you a good morning.”

Another wordless groan, pouty in tone this time, came from Vette’s bunk.

“It’s too early,” she complained.

A tsking sound came from the intercom, and suddenly Vette’s bedding flew across the room, landing on an unused bunk. The twi’lek bolted upright, outrage on her face.

“I said get up!” Mara’s voice had turned to a furious growl. “When I give you an order, Vette, you follow it. I do not care what time it is. Get. Up.”

Quinn looked around warily, trying to force back the unease rising in his gut. Mara had always been uncommonly kind for a Sith. Surely she was not preparing to kill them.

“I’m up,” Vette groused. “What the hell do you want?”

“We are running a drill today.”

“My lord?” Quinn asked carefully. “This was not something I-“

“Scheduled? No Captain, you did not. Surely you are not implying that you are the only person on this vessel who may test its crew.”

“No, my lord,” Quinn replied quickly. Perhaps too quickly; Vette rolled her eyes and chuckled.

“Is something funny, Vette?”

“Captain Kiss-ass here,” Vette replied, openly laughing.

Quinn opened his mouth to respond, but Mara saved him the trouble.

“You may want to try a hint of civility with the captain, Vette. You will complete this drill together, or you will fail and endure my wrath together. Is that clear?”

Vette stared open-mouthed at the intercom.

“What precisely is this drill, my lord?” Quinn asked.

“The scenario is that an enemy force has taken the Fury. The ship has been fully locked down. You are to retake the ship.”

“Are there… is the entire enemy force on the bridge?” Quinn asked.

“I do not know, Captain. You will have to ascertain the enemy’s strength and disposition.” A pause. “I will give you a hint, however. There are traps spread throughout the ship. You will need your combined knowledge to find and disarm them.”

“What are the loss conditions, my lord?” Quinn asked, already pulling a uniform out of his locker. Vette stared at him, and then moved to her own corner of the room to dress.

“If you trigger a trap, you fail. If one of you leaves the other behind, you fail. If you cannot complete this drill in the allotted time, you fail.”

“And that time frame is?” Vette asked, venom in her voice.

“Fleet average for liberating a ship of this size is one hour,” Mara responded. “However, since you two insist on behaving like children, I will be lenient and give you two hours.”

Quinn growled in his throat, clamping down on the urge to argue that it was Vette, not he, who started this.

“There are, of course, consequences to this drill.” Quinn nodded. There always were. “If you complete this task, I will happily welcome you both back to the bridge, and I will forgive your incivility last night enough to cook a marvelous dinner.”

“And if we fail?”

“If you cannot get your act together to retake this ship in two hours, Captain, neither of you deserves to be here. I will set a course for the nearest star system and drop you both with a generous severance pay and a subspace communicator. Unfortunately, the nearest system has only one habitable body: a moon that is only nominally class M. So whatever issues you can’t work out here, you’ll definitely have to sort out in order to survive there.”

Vette gasped. “That’s practically a death sentence! You’re better than this.”

There was a long pause. Quinn held his breath; most Sith wouldn’t think twice about killing a subordinate for such a comment.

Fortunately, Mara was not most Sith.

“I thought so, too,” she said quietly. “But then, I also thought I lived on this ship with two functional adults. It’s been a disappointing day for all of us.”

Quinn paused in buckling his holster, the last several days replaying in his head. They were not pleasant, nor were they in any way flattering to him.

“My lord, I...” he swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, Quinn. Be better.” Her voice was soft but firm.

He looked up and jumped when he realized Vette was standing three paces in front of him.  She sighed and muttered an apology. It was almost too low to hear, but Quinn found he was not in a mood to push her on the subject. Instead, he nodded and murmured a response in kind. Vette nodded.

He settled his blaster against his thigh.

“We are ready, my lord.”

***

Seventy-five minutes had gone by. Mara sat alone on the bridge watching the timer count down, her legs curled beneath her in the captain’s chair, a tepid mug of tea cradled in one hand. They had done well – better than Mara had hoped. Vette picked the lock on the door to the crew quarters and Quinn used some of the equipment from his locker for reconnaissance. Quinn laid out a methodical plan for sweeping the ship for traps, and Vette followed it, using the word “uptight” only once. Vette’s time spent as a thief meant each trap was easily identified and neutralized quickly. Mara’s three training droids, programmed to patrol the ship at random, had proved to be more of an annoyance than an actual threat.

The trap on the bridge door was giving them trouble, however. They’d been working on it for twenty minutes now, and the fragile truce between the captain and the thief was rapidly breaking down. Mara turned the sound off on the internal sensors after the first ten minutes of their work, but their voices still carried through the hatch.

They had correctly identified the mechanism that would trigger the trap. What they hadn’t figured out was that only someone Force sensitive could neutralize it. Mara thought it would be obvious, but in the heat of their rivalry, Vette and Quinn seemed to have forgotten her existence entirely. Mara stretched stiff muscles and took another sip of her tea, trying to control her nervousness.

She did not want to find out if she was cruel enough to actually strand them on a barely-habitable world.

Her comlink chimed. Mara started and flipped it on.

“Finally! We’ve been yelling at you for the past few minutes,” Vette’s voice said.

Mara looked at the sensor images and realized both Quinn and Vette were glaring into the camera. She laughed and turned the internal audio sensors back on.

“Don’t glare at me like that; it is insufferable to listen to your arguing. What do you need?”

“Quinn’s scans found the trigger mechanism, but I can’t, for the life of me, figure out how to access it. Anything I do to the door will trigger the trap, and I can’t reach it without trying to open the durasteel somehow.”

Mara leaned toward the screen, allowing her brow to furrow as if in confusion. “Show me.”

Quinn fussed with his datapad and Mara’s own pad chimed a notice. She pulled up the scan he’d taken.

“Ah, yes. I definitely would not cut the durasteel,” she confirmed.

“Uh, yeah, thanks, we already figured that out.” Vette’s voice was clipped.

“What do you need to do to it?”

“Basically I need to hold it open. I can cut its power, but the trigger will snap shut and then... boom. But if I can hold it open, I can cut the power and dismantle the whole thing safely.”

“Like this?” Mara reached out with the Force and found the metal clamp Quinn had identified in the schematic.

Quinn, looking at the scanner, nodded.

“Precisely, my lo-“

He and Vette looked at one another.

“You sneaky jerk!” Vette cried.

Mara laughed. “Disarm the trap, Vette. I’m getting hungry, and I’m sure you are, too.”

Five minutes later the hatch slid open. Mara purposely kept her seat as they entered. Vette chucked the durasteel casing of the last trap at the sith lord’s feet. Mara raised an eyebrow at the younger woman.

“That was really, incredibly shitty,” Vette said without preamble.

“Vette’s assessment is more colorful than I would use, but I must agree with the sentiment, my lord,” Quinn said. His jaw was clenched so tightly Mara was certain she could hear his teeth grinding.

“Indeed.”

They faltered slightly under her calm gaze. Vette rallied first.

“I never thought you would threaten my life over a box of candy,” she growled.

“That’s what you think this is about?” Mara rose, using every shred of her noble upbringing in her bearing and willing her presence to fill the room. “It was a catalyst, but no. I let this nonsense continue for far too long. Do you realize that yesterday evening you two found a way to bicker about something you agreed upon?”

Neither of them spoke, so she continued.

“Today, at the very least, you agree in your anger at me and have so far refrained from arguing about it.” Mara sighed. “I do not require you to like one another. But I will require you to realize I value both of you and to treat one another accordingly. The insults and the name-calling stop now.”

Silence.

“Would you really have left us on a desolate moon?” Vette asked.

Mara hesitated, hating the other woman for calling her bluff, impressed with her backbone for doing so.

“No.”

Vette relaxed only slightly. “Don’t threaten me like that again. It reminds me of... “ she glanced between Mara and Quinn. “I don’t like it,” she amended.

Mara closed the distance between them and reached out slightly. When Vette nodded, she folded the other woman into a hug.

“I won’t. I’m sorry.”

Vette squeezed her. “I’m holding you to that.”

Mara chuckled. “I would expect nothing less, Vette.”

They separated. Vette cleared her throat awkwardly.

“I need a shower.” She hesitated and said, “Good work today, Captain. I… I would have been toast on my own.”

Quinn bowed his head slightly. “I could not have succeeded without your skill, either, Vette.”

When she disappeared through the hatch Mara locked eyes with Quinn. “Everything I’ve said goes doubly for you, Captain. You may always request reassignment if you do not like it here. Vette has nowhere else to go. That woman has saved my life at least as often as you have, and you will treat her with respect.”

Quinn looked away, a low-level shame radiating through his sense.

“Of course, my lord. I am sorry for how I have behaved.”

Mara pressed her lips together. It was a start, at least. “You might try saying that to her.”

Mara returned to her seat, taking a sip of her now-cold tea. Quinn cleared his throat.

“May I have a word with you, my lord?”

Mara met his gaze. “Of course. What do you need, Quinn?”

He hesitated. “I must retrieve something first.”

Mara watched him go, frowning. He returned a moment later carrying a tall box.

“May I sit?”

Mara gestured to the copilot’s chair. He swivelled it to face her and sat down.

“I must confess I bought you a gift. I had not worked out an appropriate way of presenting it to you, but you bringing it up yesterday evening alleviated some of the awkwardness.” He paused, blushing slightly, and then held the box out to her. “Happy Life Day, my lord.”

Mara placed her tea on the console next to her and took it. She smiled, feeling suddenly shy.

“I truly did not expect anything, Quinn. But thank you.”

She opened the lid… and frowned. She lifted a potted orchid out of the box. It was beautiful - the pot was finely-carved and lacquered Kaasian pine, and the blooms on the orchid were a peculiar burnt orange color, the edges of the petals darkened nearly to black and irregular, as if singed.

She glanced at Quinn. “It’s beautiful, Captain, but you must know I have never been good at keeping plants alive.”

The corners of his lips turned upward slightly. “I believe you will do well with this one, my lord. I can show you how to care for it. And,” he hesitated, “I hope you don’t mind my saying I thought of you when I saw it.”

Mara looked at the plant dubiously. “Fragile and impractical?”

“No, my lord.” He seemed miffed at the very idea. “This is an Ithorian orchid. They are extremely hardy - you could grind it under your boot and starve it for weeks and it would spring back with only a few blooms lost.”

He leaned forward, rotating the pot in her hands as he spoke. Mara smiled. His enthusiasm for the topic was infectious.

“The fascinating thing about these orchids is they have an extraordinary capacity to adapt to their surroundings, so they thrive aboard ship. Everywhere they are taken leaves a mark on their genetic makeup, until each plant is utterly unique. This one was planted on Dromund Kaas, and matured on Korriban.” He met her gaze. “I had it delivered on Tatooine, by way of Balmorra. I wanted it to match its new lord as much as possible.”

Mara stared at the plant for several long moments fighting the ridiculous grin she felt starting.

“If you are not careful, Captain, I shall begin to think you like me.”

“Indeed, my lord, I don’t know what you mean.”

Their eyes met. He cocked his head. His face was calm, but something in the way he held himself - a slight arching of his brow, a low smoldering heat in his eyes - gave the lie to his business-like exterior. Mara felt her heart quicken. This, these moments, were why she continued as his partner in this complicated, frustrating dance.

“Quinn, you tracked down my exact match in flower form. That implies a certain level of regard. Or is it that I am not your type, and your tastes run toward botany rather than other sentients?”

His lips quirked, an almost smile, quickly buried behind his calm facade. “Indeed my lord, you are not a type at all; I daresay you are a wholly unique woman. The orchid is lovely, but it cannot compare.”

Her heart thumped harder. She inhaled shakily and looked down at the orchid. She could feel how pleased with himself he was, the bastard.

“We must name it,” she said.

“I’m sorry?”

“You have given me a living thing that adapts and changes with its experiences. We must name it if we are to raise it.”

The familiar, flustered blush returned to his face. “My lord I-”

“No, you promised to teach me to care for it. I’m afraid you’re committed, Captain Quinn.” She grinned wickedly. “Thalia shall live in my quarters, if you’d like to visit her.”

“Thalia?”

“She does look like a Thalia, does she not?” Mara nodded toward the plant.

“Ah, I suppose.” He studied it for a moment, then looked back up at Mara. “Yes, my lord. I believe it is a good name.”

“I’m glad you approve. Wait here a moment, Captain.”

Mara rose and took Thalia to her quarters and returned to the bridge holding a box of her own.

“I got you something as well,” she said.

Quinn stared at the box for a long moment before accepting it.

“My lord, I truly did not-”

Mara waved his words away. “Yes, we neither of us expected a gift from the other. We shall know better next year.” She sat back down. “Open it.”

He did, carefully tearing away the glimmering wrapping paper. His blue eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. He held a book in his hands; a real, flimsy and binding book. The red leather cover, embossed with gold lettering, promised an accounting of the first contact between the Sith and the Jedi exiles that found them millennia ago; the early, messy birth of the Empire.

“I don’t know what to say,” he breathed.

Mara smiled. “I believe the correct words are, ‘thank you’, Captain.”

“Thank you,” he said fervently, looking up from the book to her. “This is extraordinary.”

“It is a slightly different account from what is normally told,” she explained. “This is allegedly the transcription of an oral history passed down from one of the last priestesses of Marserha to her daughters. It is.. .more critical of the exiles than is typical. We have had it in our vaults for ages.”

“My lord, this is a family heirloom,” he protested.

“The original is, yes,” Mara replied with a smile. “This is a reproduction I ordered. Most of the text was translated into Basic long ago, but certain passages defy simple translation and so are still in Sith. I would be happy to teach you to read them, if you like.”

“Is that… my lord, I know how closely Sith culture is guarded. I would not-”

“Captain,” she interrupted. “I appreciate your concern, but please do not presume to dictate to me how to preserve my heritage.”

He reddened, and she smiled gently before continuing in a gentler tone.

“You know how few of us there are left,” she said, holding his gaze. “Limiting access to our language and customs to Red Sith only ensures its demise. I would much rather share it with someone I deem worthy than watch it die out in the clutches of its genetic heirs.”

“You honor me, my lord,” he said softly, looking back down at the book, which he held now as if it were something precious.

Mara felt her smile turn mischievous. “Once you are fluent I can gift you a copy of the _Râzkaj Ladzleq_.”

“My lord, I-” he sputtered, blushed, then seemed to rally, a hint of challenge in his eyes. “I have read Basic translations, my lord.”

“Ah, but the experience is far more exquisite in the original Sith.”

She felt a wave of pure lust flash through his sense before being buried. It was not the first time she’d felt his hunger for her, but this was certainly the most intense. Mara smiled and stood, worried if she stayed sitting opposite him she would throw him against the nearest bulkhead and begin a demonstration her favorite passages from the ancient text.

“Let me know when you would like to begin your lessons, Captain. Dinner will be at 18:00.”  



	3. Marserha's Wrath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a story from Mara's childhood, of a spat she had with her mother's hairless finx wrat. She's six years old and already so full of righteous rage. Originally posted to Tumblr but wanted to immortalize it here.
> 
> Wrats are a sort of rat-cat-dog mashup domesticated pet conceived of by FluffyNexu; check out the full description here: http://fluffynexu.tumblr.com/post/158044031372/wrats

It is not the homecoming Captain Gilad Thrask anticipated.

After nine months deployed, he walks through his front door for his precious three days of leave and stops short, his mouth hanging open. His six-year-old daughter walks past, a squirming, hissing pile of flesh and wrinkles gripped tightly in her small arms. Her gait is as close to a predator’s stalk as a six-year-old can possibly get. Which is closer than average - her Pureblood heritage ensures that - but still amusingly incongruous.

The snarling beast in her arms is his wife Ragna’s finx wrat: a hairless, wrinkled beast with red eyes and a permanently disgruntled expression on its pointed snout. At 6 kilograms it’s a bit large for Maranel to carry under the best circumstances; now, with it writhing, wrapping its forked tail around her arm and sinking its every tooth and claw into her red skin, it should be nigh impossible. But Maranel’s face is set in an expression of grim concentration as she hauls the beast across the room. She looks uncannily like her mother, using her pain to focus.

She knows he’s there, of course; she’s been able to sense both him and Ragna since before she could walk. She greets him distractedly without taking her intense amber eyes off the animal in her arms.

“What are you doing with Marsah’s wrat?”

She pauses then and looks up at him.

“Sweetums has been bad, Dardiz.”

He stifles a smile at her serious tone.

“Is that so?”

He retrieves his datapad and dashes off a quick message to Ragna -  _your naked sithspawn is eviscerating our daughter_  - and kneels down to take the animal from her. Both Maranel and the wrat make growling sounds of protest, his daughter jerking away from him.

“No! He must learn!”

Whatever the beast has done, he knows he can’t let her harm it - Ragna adores the thing, for reasons that are unfathomable to the rest of her family - and more to the point, its claws are beginning to draw blood. He reaches for her again, with similar results.

“Maranel!”

His voice cracks like a whip and she goes still, glaring at him for a long moment before her shoulders slump and she sullenly hands the angry wrat to him. He holds the animal the way Ragna taught him, resting its long body on one arm, the other hand cradling it against his chest. Or rather, he tries to; the unrepentant beast turns on him immediately. Still, with the armor in his uniform jacket and his reinforced gloves, he’s a better target for the ill-tempered thing’s claws and teeth than Maranel’s bare arms.

“Now what was the beast’s crime?”

The grim seriousness on her face begins to break down.

“He ate Traya,” she says, her little face dissolving into tears.

Traya is her plush mowhef, her most prized possession. They have several duplicates in the house, Gilad knows; indeed, the current Traya is the third replacement for the original her aunt Dzafir had given her for her first birthday.

“He ate her face,” she continues, sniffling and glaring daggers at the wrat still struggling in his arms. “He ate her face and he was sleeping on her insides.”

The last couple of words are nearly unintelligible as she starts to sob, shuffling forward to press her face into his chest, heedless of the angry animal in his left arm. He hugs her tight against him, soothing her as she cries into his uniform.

The wrat decides at that moment to chew its way through the leather of his glove, and he jumps as its teeth make contact with his skin. Glaring down at the spoiled, crotchety animal, he is sorely tempted, for two heartbeats, to help Maranel in whatever grisly punishment she had in mind for the beast.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, Ragna hurries into the room, forestalling any action on his part. She takes in the tableau in front of her and then kneels next to him, her robes pooling elegantly around her.

“My darling girl, what happened?”

Ragna’s rich, low voice is gentle, but it seems to reignite Maranel’s anger, for she jerks back from Gilad to glare at her mother.

“Your wrat killed Traya!”

“Oh, sweetling, I’m so sorry.”

She folds Maranel into a hug and holds her, stroking her dark hair. Ragna’s amber eyes meet his and she mouths “I missed you”, and then reaches out one hand to squeeze his before turning her attention back to their daughter.

“Have you tried to heal her?”

“What?”

“Wrats are alchemical in origin, I bet we can fix whatever he did to Traya,” Ragna says, cupping Maranel’s face in one hand. “Take me to her.”

Maranel sniffles and nods. As his wife allows herself to be led away, she locks eyes with him again and he nods his understanding, rising to put the wrat in its kennel and to fetch one of the duplicate Trayas from the closet.

***

Gilad placed his datapad back on the side table.

“The Ascendant’s maintenance is behind schedule,” he said as he rolled over and pulled Ragna to him. “It looks like you’ll have me for an extra ten hours at least.”

She settled against him, skimming a hand over his chest. He exhaled deeply at her touch and held her a bit tighter. He would never balk at his duty to the Empire, but stars he missed his family while he was away.

“Maranel and Dzaf will have you,” she corrected. “The Council has ordered me to Kaas City the day after tomorrow.”

He hummed into her hair.

“A pity. Anything interesting?”

“The usual; a few border systems have become disillusioned by the Republic’s inability to field a halfway decent martial force of any kind. A couple would prove extremely painful losses if we can sway them.”

“Fortunately for us you are an extremely persuasive woman.”

She chuckled against him. They fell back into silence for a time. They’d floated the idea of rising for the day several times now, but had so far given in to their mutual inertia. After months aboard ship, the sounds of home had lulled him to a state of drowsy relaxation: Ragna’s soft breath; the birds that populated the forest outside; the sound of Maranel talking to herself as she played in the room down the hall.

His eyes flew back open as he suddenly realized it had been awhile since he’d heard his daughter’s voice down the hall.

Sensing his sudden shift in mood, Ragna sat up on an elbow to look at him.

“She’s fine,” she said.

“Why is she so quiet?”

Ragna’s browstalks furrowed as she reached out through her Force bond with their daughter.

“She’s concentrating quite hard.” Her lips curved in a fond smile. “It’s not unusual for children her age to try and move-”

A squeal pierced the silence.

Ragna was out of bed so quickly Gilad hardly saw her move. He was right behind her. They both staggered down the hallway pulling robes on as they approached Maranel’s playroom. He realized as they hurried along that Ragna was angry, not frightened. He relaxed fractionally; that meant the preternatural squeal they’d heard did not come from their daughter.

They burst into the playroom and skidded to a halt. Gilad clapped a hand over his mouth to contain a laugh, though he knew his wife would feel his amusement anyway; laughing seemed an unnecessary insult added to injury.

Maranel sat on the floor at her child-sized tea table, a selection of dolls and stuffed animals arrayed around it as her guests. At their center, clearly a guest of dubious honor, was Ragna’s finx wrat. He wore a doll-sized robe - how she had gotten him into the garment was beyond Gilad - and was crouched on the ground. Atop him was Traya - a new Traya - standing on the wrat as if it were her kill.

The wrat was lying prone and struggling. It tried to push itself to a sitting position, nearly unseating the plush mowhef on its back.

“No!”

Maranel’s face became pinched and she jerked forward, supporting herself on her hands as she glared at the wrat. It squealed again and an unseen hand pushed its upper half back to the floor.

“Maranel,” Ragna’s voice was soft but hard as durasteel.

Their daughter looked up at them. Sweat beaded on her forehead. As soon as her attention was diverted, the wrat jerked itself to its feet, unseating Traya, and scampered toward Ragna. She scooped up the animal and held it gently. It buried its face in her robe.

“Explain yourself.”

“He ate Traya.”

Maranel glared back at Ragna, her jaw clenched stubbornly.

“There are consequences,” she added.

Gilad coughed. Ragna glared back at him for a moment, but he could see her lips twitching upward as she fought a smile of her own. Those were their words thrown back at them.

“There are,” Ragna agreed, turning back to Maranel and kneeling in front of her. “Lord Ushlek spent the night in his kennel for what he did. He would still be there if you had not let him out to punish him.”

“It wasn’t enough. Traya should eat him!”

“Maranel, you cannot torment another being because it hurt your feelings, especially when it is a non-sentient animal that doesn’t know any better.”

“But we’re Sith. We can do anything we want. We break our chains.”

Ragna sighed.

"What chains has Lord Ushlek placed on you? We healed Traya and he was punished.”

“But I hate him!”

Ragna did chuckle then.

“I understand, but you have to use that feeling wisely. Lord Ushlek is a wrat and he cannot know why you’re punishing him. Do you think it makes sense to use your hatred on him?”

Silence.

“Do you think you can control him all the time?”

“No.”

The word came out as a grumble.

“But you can control Traya and protect her.”

Maranel looked back at her mowhef, now lying on its side on the floor. She picked it up and cradled it in much the same way Ragna cradled her wrat.

“He’s not allowed in here.”

Despite her six-year-old voice the words were delivered with a confident air of command. Ragna nodded.

“And how will you enforce that?”

“The door?”

“Yes, you can keep your door closed. Both to your playroom and your bedroom. But,” Ragna held up a hand, “you may not lock them. If you do the doors will stay open and you will have to find some other way to protect Traya. Do you understand?”

Maranel nodded.

“I will punish him if he comes in here again.”

“You will carry him out and I will punish him. He belongs to me.”

Ragna’s voice dropped again into that hard tone. Maranel hesitated, then nodded and thrust out one small hand.

“We have an accord, Marsah.”

It was Ragna’s turn to cough as she fought back her amusement. Somehow she kept her face smooth as she shook her daughter’s hand.

“Good. Now, if you go help Dardiz with breakfast, I bet he will make you Wrathful Wrat pancakes.”

Maranel’s golden eyes lit up and she scampered toward Gilad. He scooped her up - his back twinged slightly; she was bigger than he remembered - and kissed her cheek. She giggled when his beard tickled her skin.

“Can we make tea for Traya, Dardiz?”

“We can - take her to the kitchen, I’ll be right there.”

She ran up the hall and he looked at his wife.

“She used the Force on Sweetums.”

Ragna nodded.

“Is that typical?”

“It’s more common amongst Pureblood children,” she said slowly. She stroked Sweetums as she stared off into the middle distance.

“Nor is it surprising, really; we knew she was strong.” She focused again on Gilad. “I’ll work with her today and inform Dzaf. She has to learn control; she nearly flattened Lord Ushlek.”

“I can’t say that would be a terrible loss,” he replied dryly.

Ragna glared at him, but it was fond.

“If you’re not careful, I’ll set him loose in your wardrobe,” she warned, her tone teasing.

“You’d better go, otherwise Maranel will try to turn on the stove herself.”

As if on cue, Maranel’s voice carried up the hall, shouting his name.

“Duty calls, my lord.”

He kissed Ragna briefly and hurried to the kitchen.


	4. A Truce Of Sorts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This picks up about 14 years after Chapter 3, Marserha's Wrath. Mara's mother has died, leaving a grieving, sixteen-year-old Mara in charge of her house. Mara and Lord Ushlek (her mother's wrat), united in grief, arrive at a delicate understanding.

Mara stared through the transparisteel, seeing her eyes reflected back at her more than the courtyard outside.

“Okay, so my mines at Thrayesh are under attack, the Imperial military has cancelled its contracts with Thrask Durasteel, and I’m likely to abase myself appealing to the Hutts for business rather than let this house die.” Her voice was bitter. She turned back to the three women arrayed before her mother’s desk - her desk - and laughed mirthlessly. “Anything else?”

“One minor matter, Lady Thrask.” The only human in the room, Caldwyn ran the Thrask estate.

“I’ll take anything that I can actually fix,” she replied dryly.

“If you could let the porters know when you’re out of your rooms tomorrow morning, we will begin moving your things into the master suite.”

Mara stared, open-mouthed, between Caldwyn and the other two Red Sith in the room.

“You’ll do no such thing, Caldwyn. My mother died,” her heart clenched and her voice broke on the word.  _Died a traitor. Threw her entire house into chaos._  “Darth Avari died only a month ago.” There, she said it. “You’ll leave her rooms and mine alone.”

“I understand your feelings, my girl,” her aunt Reyna’s voice was gentle, the words slow and soothing, “but under normal circumstances-”

“What about any of this strikes you as normal, Reyna?” Mara shouted. “Is it that we’re considering business with the Hutts for the first time in our entire history? That we’re so weak a twerp like Garm Sivak thinks he can attack us? Or the fact that I will be the first house head ever to have not graduated from a Sith academy?”

“Maranel-” Aunt Dzafir reached for her arm. “Sweetling that’s not-”

“My orders stand,” she snapped, wrenching away. “All of them; if I catch a porter in my room tomorrow they will be removed.”

She held Caldwyn’s gaze long enough to be sure her threat was understood, then stormed from the room.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way, she thought, not for the first time. She always knew her role as head of house would begin with her mother’s death. But never in her life did she think that death would be an execution for treason. It made no sense; had she not found her mother’s last letter to her, she would never have believed Malgus’s claims.

But it was true. She was a traitor’s daughter - and a respected Imperial officer’s daughter, but understandably the former carried far more weight than the latter. Rather than the solemn responsibility of stewardship of her name, Mara was left with this unrelenting pile of bantha-

She stumbled and yelped when a pair of tiny teeth sank into her ankle. She glared down to find Lord Ushlek, her mother’s ill-tempered wrat, wrapped around her ankle. He glared up at her, mouth still wrapped around her flesh.

Of course. No honor, no future, shortly no money, but she had this waste of wrinkled skin.

She growled and shook her leg as hard as she could, sending the beast flying across the room. He hit the wall with a sharp squeal and dropped to the floor, huddled in a ball, ears back, head lowered penitently. Mara stalked toward him, lips curled back in a sobbing snarl.

Suddenly a brown and black blur shot past her, coming to a skidding halt in front of Ushlek. Twice the size of the hairless wrat by weight and three times its size including her fluffy striped coat, Loajalkra had been Mara’s wrat and companion since the age of seven. The two beasts hated one another, but to Mara’s shock Loajalkra nuzzled Ushlek gently. Mara took a step toward them, and the larger wrat turned reproachful brown eyes on her. Another step, and she growled softly. Not threatening, exactly, but Mara could tell from her stance that the wrat would have to be physically removed from Ushlek’s side if she wanted to continue.

“Fine,” she growled. “Protect the surly bastard for all I care.”

She stomped down the hall and threw open the doors to her mother’s room.

Everything was so neat, exactly as Darth Avari left it when she departed for Alderaan months ago. An arrangement of thornroses sat on the vanity, changed out every few days by their staff irrespective of her death. This bouquet had been picked early; each bloom had a shock of bright green at its center, stark against the purple-black petals. Next to it was the letter she’d sent to Mara, dated the day before her treason. She would need to burn that, she knew; that her mother had reached out to her at all could be enough to change the Council’s mind about executing her as well. But some part of her resisted.

“Your gods-damned wrat bit me. Again.” She announced to the empty room. “And you’ll be happy to know Dardiz avoided a court martial, somehow. He’s been assigned to Hoth for the next two years, or until the political fallout calms down. He’s thrilled about it; you know how much he loves the cold.”

She felt tears on her cheeks as she collapsed onto the edge of the bed.

“So you’re gone, Dardiz is miserable, everything is kriffed, I will never become a lord of the sith,” her voice broke on the words, “but that kriffing rancor colon of a wrat is still here and biting me. You couldn’t take him with you?”

Words became impossible as she started sobbing. Soon enough she was burrowed in the covers, the warm spice smell of her mother surrounding her, and cried until she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer.

Hours later, Mara surfaced enough to feel  Loajalkra’s warm, fluffy bulk snuggled against her side. And above her…. She opened her eyes. The room was filled with the peculiar blue darkness that followed the sunset. Above her, snugged up in her loose hair, Lord Ushlek purred softly.

She swore, heart clenching with guilt. The wrat must have come in here looking for her mother. Instead, he found her. Despite her earlier behavior, he seemed less disappointed by that unpleasant surprise than her aunts or anyone else forced to deal with Mara in her capacity as new head of house.

Carefully, she twisted her head so she could see his pointed face. He opened his beady dark eyes, annoyed that his nest was shifting, and met her gaze.

“You miss her too, don’t you.” Mara reached a tentative hand and ran a finger over his wrinkled, hairless body. “I suppose there should be a truce if we’re to be stuck with one another”

They regarded one another for long heartbeats, until finally Ushlek stretched forward, whiskers tickling her skin, and licked her cheek. Mara sighed and ran her hand over him again.

“You’re still a useless, wrinkled sack of dung,” she muttered to the wrat. He cocked his head, then licked her cheek again and curled up against her head. She settled into the pillow, one arm around Loajalkra, and fell back to sleep


	5. Always, Only You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An AU where Quinn's career is never derailed by Broysc or Balmorra; similarly, Mara's life is never derailed by her mother's treason. Somehow, they still manage to find one another. Assuming a parallel version of the Vanilla game is happening around them, this is probably early Chapter 3 or so for the warrior story (though please note Mara is not Baras's apprentice in this timeline).

There are very few downsides to being the youngest Moff in the Imperial Military, but mandatory formal parties are at the top of that extremely short list as far as Quinn is concerned. The annual Military Ball is one thing; anyone in the military who can will attend, and one can easily spend the night in the company of one’s own peers and social circle. A Life Day party hosted by the Minister of War in his own home, on the other hand, is a far more intimate and political affair.

And the ratio of Sith to Imperial personnel is far higher, a thoroughly unnerving fact given the other mixed blessing of his new rank: seemingly everyone and their third cousin is keen on meeting the first man in history under the age of 40 to attain so high a rank. Still, he’s not climbed so high so fast by forgetting his manners, so when a voice calls for his attention, he glances at the mirror above the fireplace to make sure his features are a neutral, polite mask, before turning in the direction of the speaker. 

“Moff Quinn,” Colonel Ovech greets him with a salute.

“As you were, Colonel,” Quinn replies, his voice wary. There’s a glint in Ovech’s hazel eyes that Quinn remembers well from their time together in basic; it always kicked off of events that inevitably ended in a punishment of some kind.

“Sir, this is Maranel Thrask, Lord of the Sith and High Lady of House Thrask.”

Ovech shifts to the side to reveal a tall Red Sith woman. Quinn inhales sharply through the suddenly-tight collar of his dress blacks.

She’s dressed far more simply than most Red Sith he’s seen, her gown and jewelry calculated to emphasize her species without the level of opulence he usually associates with her kind. The simple black gown hugs her curvaceous body, the neckline plunging to her waist to show off the v-shaped ridges that run down her sternum. When she takes a step forward he catches a flash of one red leg as the slit in the skirt opens slightly.

In short, she’s gorgeous, despite - no, he realizes,  _ because of _ \- the imperious angle at which she holds her head and the way her amber eyes flash with annoyance as she looks him up and down. He can’t help but notice how she seems to hesitate - is that a slight hitch in her breath? - before taking another step forward and looking him full in the face.

“Thank you, Colonel. If you don’t mind I would speak to Moff Quinn alone.” The venom with which she spits his rank and name does nothing to lessen her allure, Emperor help him.

Ovech offers Quinn a salute, not even trying to hide his mirth, Force damn him, and takes his leave.

“My lord,” he says with a bow. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“I’ve just been informed that you’ve granted Project Acklay contract to House Sivak.”

Quinn frowned. He’d only just signed off on that paperwork an hour ago. How had she found out so quickly? 

“I must confess I was shocked,” she continues, her eyes holding his angrily, “for I’ve been told how brilliant the new Moff is, how thorough and painstaking in his analyses and there is no way such a person could review both bids and arrive at such a flawed decision.” She looks him up and down again. “Tell me, Moff Quinn, are you stupid or simply wet behind the ears?”

“I  _ beg _ your pardon,” he sputters. Several eyes turn toward them and Quinn shocks himself by grabbing the Sith woman by the elbow and steering her out onto a covered patio where they can speak with more privacy. Wet behind the ears? He’s young for his position, but she’s easily five years his junior, if not more.  “Your bid was thirty percent higher than Sivak’s and my engineers found no difference between the durasteel samples you each provided. You may have maintained your contacts with my predecessor, Moff Broysc,” he spat the name, “though his neglectful approach to procurement, but I can assure you all of his prior dealings are under review.”

“Broysc had his head up his ass, a fact of which you’re clearly aware, but even a stopped chrono is right once a day, and Thrask Industries is one of those scant instances.” Her tone indicates this is a well-known fact as far as she’s concerned. “We never took advantage of him; I don’t make it a policy of exploiting the Imperial Military.”

“That is good to know, my lord, but my decision stands.”

“Sivak is a slaver. That’s why his bid is lower. His mines are unsafe, worked by poor wretches who will, in all likelihood, die in them.”

Quinn sighed. “Slavery is legal, my lord.”

“Are you truly so short-sighted? My zersium is mined by Imperial citizens; refined by them. And when their work day is complete they spend their wages and pay their taxes, giving back to the Empire in ways Sivak’s slaves will never be able to.” A pause for breath. “And all that is quite aside from mine safety issues.”

“My lord, please.” He can barely hold back a highly inappropriate smile - her enthusiasm for enumerating the many shortfalls of her competitor is somehow infectious, to say nothing of her deep understanding of the subject matter at hand.

“I’m not finished, Moff Quinn,” she answers with an impudent smile of her own. She can clearly see how close she is to winning him over. “Sivak has taken nine million credits from the Sphere of Logistics in the last five years alone to repair major collapses and the like. Such payouts more than makeup the difference in our bid prices. Surely you and I can agree that is not a good use of capital.”

Quinn stares at her for a long moment, wavering and cursing himself for it. He’s a  _ moff _ who made a well-reasoned decision; he can’t simply take it back because a stunning woman yells at him about it. 

_ But it’s not that _ , he insists to himself.  _ Or not primarily that. _ Her arguments are sound and the way she’s proactively sought him out throws into perspective the interactions his staff has had with hers over the past month; he’d mistaken their obvious engagement with the process for ego, perhaps biased against Thrask simply because Broysc had kept them on as his primary durasteel supplier for decades. 

But no; her presence before him and her obvious intellect indicate she’ll be an active partner in this project going forward. He’d told his staff a personal touch wasn’t necessary - and it isn’t. But he’s been too quick to dismiss the value added in such a partnership.

Still, he can’t deny that he’s entranced by her glowing eyes and the way her mahogany hair swished around her shoulders when she turned that impudent smile on him. And he can’t simply give up without a fight.

“You could always lower your bid price,” he ventured, turning to lean against the railing, focused studiously on the rain and not  _ her _ . “Perhaps not to meet Sivak, but as a sign of good faith?”

She laughs, stars that laugh did things to his insides, and joined him at the railing, standing close enough that her shoulder brushed his. Her eyes danced merrily when she looked at him.

“Why would I do that when we both know I’m right?”

“Because you want this contract, my lord, and we both know your price is marked up by at least ten percent even after accounting for all you’ve said here tonight.”

She stares at him, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I could be persuaded to lower the bid by five percent.”

“Eight percent,” he counters. 

“Six percent and not a credit more.”

“Done,” he says with a smile. He pulls out a datapad and sends a quick note to his procurement officer to notify him of the change. “You’ll hear from my office within the hour.”

“Good.” She motions at a serving droid trundling past the door and offers Quinn a glass of champagne that he accepts. “I’m immensely pleased you’re as smart as people say you are,” the complement is punctuated by the clink of her glass against his, “when properly motivated of course.”

His cheeks immediately ignite in a blush. “My lord, I can’t imagine what you mean.” He fights the urge to fidget under her gaze - he’s a  _ Moff _ , he reminds himself yet again, how easy it is to forget that in her presence - and forcibly pulls himself back together. “Had you planned to attend the Minister’s Life Day party before this news reached you?”

She chuckles. “No indeed; as delightful as I am, the Minister neglected to invite me.”

“My lord did you-” he gulps, picturing her storming through the various guards at the front doors, “did you injure anyone?”

“Would it excite you if I had?” she counters. She lets him dangle for several heartbeats, the smirk on her face entirely too distracting, then, “Nothing so sordid, I assure you. A good friend recently ascended to the Council and has kindly allowed me to be her plus one for however long this interview would take.”

“Speaking of, I suppose I’d better go find her so her actual date can return.” There’s definite disappointment in her voice as she looks him up and down once more. This time, the metaphorical vibroscalpel in her gaze is more obvious, peeling his dress uniform away as it travels over him. Quinn shivers as if she’s actually touched him and he allows himself the same luxury, eyes lingering on the ridges on her sternum, his mouth actually watering. When their eyes meet again, it’s obvious by her pleased smile she noticed every detail of the exchange. 

“Moff Quinn, it has been a pleasure.” She slides closer, an arm slipping around his waist to pluck his holocomm from his belt. “When you’re done here you should invite me out for a drink.” She pressed a sequence of buttons, and then her own device pinged an incoming call. She returns his holocomm to its place, her hand lingering on him just a hair longer than necessary. “I have it on good authority I’ll say yes.”

_ Can I really have drinks with a Sith Lord? _ he wonders. While it’s not been a priority, he’s never been shy about pursuing attachments when sufficiently motivated. But never with a  _ Sith _ . Some part of him is shrieking with panic at the thought. The rest, however… he’s a thirty-nine-year-old Moff, not some green, blushing lieutenant, and the way his stomach flips as he watches her gown hug her hips as she walks away from him, he knows he’ll regret it for the rest of his life if he doesn’t act.

She’s nearly through the door before Quinn recovers his voice. “My lord,” he scrambles after her. “Lord Thrask,” he amends, catching her hand in his. “Is 23:30 too late for you?”

The smile that she gives him is radiant, a rare cloudless day in Kaas City. “Not in the least. I look forward to it, Moff Quinn.”


	6. Under the Tsipak Root

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mara and Quinn celebrate their second Life Day since meeting, and their first since becoming lovers. Mara introduces Quinn to a Red Sith winter tradition and its accompanying myth. Takes place late in chapter 2 of the warrior story.

“I brought you something.”

Quinn looked up to see Mara smiling down at him, amber eyes twinkling, hands tucked suspiciously behind her back. Behind her, through a window, snow blanketed the ground outside the cabin they’d rented. He laid aside his datapad.

“I thought we exchanged gifts already.”

“This is something different,” she replied, sauntering over to the couch, careful to keep her back facing away from him. Quinn cocked his head, a mixture of intrigue and nervousness running through him, as she sat. Suddenly her hand was between them, brandishing a damp-looking plant of some kind.

He jerked backward involuntarily when she thrust it at his chest. It was a root, its flesh red - nearly the same color as her skin - split ends joining just below a bulb whose top sprouted long, black leaves. In truth, it looked like a miniature Red Sith bound together with a sparkling, black ribbon.

“What is that?”

Mara frowned. “It’s tsipak root. Highly poisonous, but extremely meaningful in Sith winter celebrations.”

Suddenly the root floated upward until it dangled above them. She gave him a warm, inviting smile, amber eyes searing his as she waited for… something.

“Darling,” Quinn began, clearing his throat. “I’m not sure I… understand.”

“You’ve never heard of tsipak root?”

“I thought I just-”

“Most non-Sith have never seen it, but I thought the tradition was well known.”

Quinn shook his head.

“Oh. Well then.” She scooted closer until she could drape her legs over his and settled back into the cushions. “You know of Marserha and Ahmurn, yes?”

“I know everything you’ve told me,” he answered.

“So you know that, while she was mortal, Marserha bore many children by the god Ahmurn, demigods who were the first generation of Sith.” At his nod, she continued, “after she died and Ahmurn made her a goddess and his wife, she had only one more child, Tsyaraj.”

“Sith are a perfect amalgam of our immortal parents, and so was Tsyaraj, except he lacked the burden of mortality that weighed upon his siblings. It was not long before the oldest of the mortal Sith, Vorotsis, grew to hate him for his divinity. He conspired to murder Tsyaraj and reclaim the Mother’s undivided love and attention. But Marserha was cunning and wise, and so she learned of the threat to her son’s life.

"She loved Vorotsis as her firstborn, and so instead of punishing him, commanded the flora and fauna and the very rock itself of Korriban not to harm Tsyaraj. They acquiesced, and Marserha was pleased that Vorotsis therefore had no weapons available to harm Tsyaraj, and that her sons would live.” Mara nodded upward at the root floating above them. “She forgot about the tsipak root. It only grows in the winter season in a small region of Korriban, and the Mother exacted promises from Korriban during the warm season.”

“You said it was poisonous,” Quinn said. “Vorotsis poisoned his brother.”

Mara nodded. “Marserha was devastated; her grief and rage rent the sky, covering the planet in endless thunder and lightning. Ahmurn’s lover, the serpent goddess Bashara, was so moved by Marserha’s grief, she hunted Vorotsis who, like the spoiled child he was, had run from his Mother’s pain. Bashara found him cowering in a cave. She hauled him out into the sun where Marserha could see, wrapped him in her coils, and strangled him.”

“That… does not explain this tradition,” Quinn said. _Unless she’s suggesting we try something rather new in the bedroom…._

“I’m not done yet,” Mara replied with a smile, the glint in her eye suggesting she’d understood at least some of his train of thought. “Marserha had come to Korriban to punish her traitorous son, and arrived to find Bashara in her naga form, all fury and vengeance, lightning glinting off her black iridescent scales as she held Vorotsis aloft above her head, squeezing the life from him. She was breathtaking.”

“And Marserha, filled with righteous anger, radiating the pure power of the Sith… in that moment Bashara knew she’d been moved to avenge Marserha not just out of sympathy or a sense of justice, but out of love; out of passion. When their eyes met she knew Marserha felt the same.”

Mara turned her gaze back to Quinn, a warm, wistful smile on her face.

“And so she drew Marserha to her, and as Vorotsis exhaled his last breath over their heads, they shared their first kiss.” She’d leaned closer to him, her voice dropping to an intimate whisper as she finished the story. “And so every winter we remember the warmth passion and love can bring in the coldest moments of life. If you find your lover standing beneath the tsipak root, you must kiss them, or earn the Mother’s antipathy.”

Quinn stroked her cheek, feeling her bone spurs against his palm, and ran his fingers through her mahogany hair. “Far be it from me to disrespect the mother of all Sith,” he murmured.

She only had time for a brief chuckle before he claimed her lips hungrily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Sith pantheon of gods - Ahmurn, Marserha, and Bashara being the primary trinity thereof - is world building work done by FluffyNexu. 
> 
> The names of Marserha's sons are a mish-mosh of vocabulary developed as part of erunamiryene's conlang efforts. Vorotsis translates loosely to 'firstborn Sith', and Tsyaraj means 'eternal child', but in this sense I mean child as 'offspring' rather than the specific early period of life before maturity.
> 
> The tsipak root is mine; it's a mix of mistletoe (in terms of holiday function) and mandrake root (in terms of look).


End file.
